One Last Adventure
by Aeyrin
Summary: The woman who once begged at the city gates now rules it. Past decisions have been miscalculated however as the conquering giants from the top of the world return in force to keep a promise made five years ago. Graver still the Champion is vulnerable.
1. Chapter One: Remembrance and Regret

Life is a journey, and no one is more proof of that than the woman who once begged at the gates of the city she now rules. Past decisions have evidently been miscalculated however as the conquering giants from the top of the world return in force to keep a promise that was made five years ago. Graver still the Champion is at her most vulnerable. Inevitable loss will lead to one last adventure and a long journey.

Set two years after the Kirkwall Mage rebellion with flashbacks to different dates. Character appearances of different magnitudes including Warden Brosca, the Arishok and the Cousland family. Possibly (probably) more.

* * *

**Chapter One: Remembrance and Regret**

**9:39 Dragon, Kirkwall (The Free Marches)**

**Present Day**

There was a calm that had settled over Hawke as she sat in the window of her estate's upper floor, erasing the state she had worked herself into earlier that day. The early evening sun was still dancing through the glass, though it had dimmed somewhat since when she had first sat down. She had been watching the nobles go about their business below for sometime. Some faces she recognised: the grizzled Lord Riserush and his two yellow haired daughters (Hawke had rescued both girls from kidnappers six years back), a harried looking Lady Irnbry, followed by three even more harried looking servants carrying her afternoon purchases (It wasn't widely known but Lord Irnbry was a practising Bloodmage, before Hawke put an end to him and saved his wife from a sacrificial ritual), and the young Lord Cottonham, as usual carrying three leather bound books (his youthful features had lit up when Hawke had presented him with the ancient Tome of the Red Islands which she'd discovered during an escapade on a remote costal peninsula).

Other than the steady panting from the old Mabari, the estate was silent while she gazed out on the city. There were times when Hawke would miss the noise: Sandal knocking something expensive over and the apologetic flurry from Bodahn that would follow, but there were times such as these where she was grateful to be alone, able to settle herself… or convince her heart to act more like her head.

Out on the streets there would no doubt be excited talk and eager shoppers due of the fast approaching celebrations. Nobles loved a good excuse to buy exceptionally expensive hats and gowns and shoes and delicate silk gloves. Though most usually made extravagant purchases most days of the year, festivities were always an agreeable justifier that made them believe their spending was a worthy cause (without having to touch dirty people or muddy their said delicate silk gloves). However, for Natalie Amell-Hawke, Viscountess of Kirkwall and Champion of the City, past incidents setting the president left her positive that the more expensive a gown was the more likely the city would explode on the day she wore it. To add bitter irony, the most expensive dress she had ever owned (and hopefully _would_ ever own) would be worn inside a building that had only recently been rebuilt from a devastating explosion, though caution was taken to prevent history from repeating itself; the new Chantry was built with no undercroft, solid foundations and Aveline had vowed to lead her guards in a sweep of the shiny new building no less than three times before the ceremony. It was an honest and dedicated vow that Hawke had joked about at the time, but deep down it made her feel better.

Rubbing the strain from her eyes, Hawke decided it was probably time she moved from the window before more people started looking up and noticing the puffy faced Champion. They would probably start shouting congratulations from outside if they did. She moved her limbs from their slump and stood up indolently. Her muscles had gone limp from the day's rest and it took a few minutes to shake, rub and stretch life back into them before she moved towards her bedroom. The light was draining out as the sun set behind the buildings of Hightown. Hawke lit a few candles next to the elaborately decorated gilded mirror which Lady Elegant had bequeathed after her passing. It was a beautiful thing which had taken Hawke aback when it was delivered, though she had gladly accepted it once past the initial shock of hearing her long-term contact had passed away so young. Friend wasn't the right word for the socialite herbalist, though Hawke regretted that it wasn't every time she looked into the mirror. Friends were hard to come by, and it was a reminder that she should have made more of an effort with people she liked.

Perching herself on the quilted stool, the Champion studied her reflection: her hair was dishevelled, fawn coloured strands were sticking up from where her hand had held her head and her eyes were still red and stiff from dried up tears. She wasn't ashamed she'd cried, sometimes she needed to, and it always left her feeling a little better afterwards, if a little headachy. Hawke always waited until she was alone before venting her distress however. A weepy Viscountess would be an embarrassment to the city. A weepy Champion would be an embarrassment to herself. Cleaning the salt trails from her cheeks, the recovery began and a dab of sickly sweet smelling Orlesian powder later and she felt human again.

Stripping off her relax wear, Hawke hunted around for her chain mail and leathers in only her small clothes, throwing cotton shirts and fancy slippers over her shoulder as she went. Routing through piles of clothes that needed folding or washing or _something_ made Hawke realised just how much she missed Orana's cleaning. The elf had only been on her honeymoon for four days and already the build up of mess on the estate was frustrating. She discovered a single boot and her undershirt beneath the large four poster bed, her leg mail in her small clothes drawer, gloves on the bookshelf and breastplate and coat and tails under a pile of rejected gowns in the corner. Hawke dressed in what she had found before descending the stairs to continue the search for her elusive left boot only to be faced with a concerned looking Aveline coming in through the hallway door. The mighty Champion spun on her heels and hopped on her booted foot back up the stairs as quickly as she could.

"Hawke!" Hawke gritted her teeth as she stood motionless on the top step, back turned to the Guard Captain, "I was worried… Have you been here all day?"

"I needed a nap," Hawke replied jovially, regaining her composure and descending the stairs once again. "Why, what disaster, how many dead and whose responsible for it all?"

"No disaster _yet_. But if you keep missing meetings with foreign dignitaries so you can take naps, there will be. Peace needs to be tended to, otherwise weeds appear."

"I know you need to keep yourself entertained now you're not following me about as much, but I wouldn't have pictured you as the gardening type."

"I don't want to lecture you but-"

"Do you wear a straw hat?"

"Hawke..."

"Does Donnic like your 'green thumb' up his-"

"Hawke."

"Stopping now." Hawke tightened her lips into a restrained smirk and watched as Aveline's irritated frown eventually crumbled into something softer. The Guard Captain suddenly noticed her friend's armour.

"Going out?" Hawke shifted uncomfortably, tugging the edges of her coat down.

"Yeah, just for a little while. It's past the bedtime of most nobles. I won't have to make polite conversation about my dress." She crinkled her nose in distain.

"I thought it looked rather nice, though I can't say the same about the ones you picked out for us bridesmaids."

"Ah-ah-ah, you're a bride's-_matron_."

"I'm a bloody bridesmaid, and if you call me matron once more I'll be a kicker-of-bride's-arse," Aveline's frown wavered again as she saw the grin tugging at Hawkes lips, obviously pleased that she'd baited another reaction. "One of these days, I'm going to get my own back on you, Hawke."

"You love it. Though, if you're really not happy with your dress we could just paint your armour to match the colour scheme. It's such a part of you I'm pretty sure no-one would even notice."

"It would put me a little bit more at ease," Aveline sighed, walking over to the fireplace. "I don't doubt my guards… but it should be me watching your back."

"You will be, you'll just be prettied up first." Hawke replied with a wink before heading towards her front door, suddenly in need of fresh air.

"Hey, Hawke?" Aveline called from behind her. The Champion turned and was promptly thrown her left boot. "Why in Thedas do you keep this on top of the fireplace?" Hawke grinned and pulled the spike covered leather over her bare foot.

"Lock up for me, would you?" Hawke shouted as she opened the front door of the Amell-Hawke estate and walked out into the temperate Kirkwall night.

* * *

Just as Hawke had hoped, there were few people still out and those that were tried to avoid her, unaware that their shady activities weren't far off from what the Viscountess was still apart of less than six years ago. It seemed much longer to Hawke, or as if her less above board adventures had happened to someone else. It was roughly nine and a half years since she had climbed off that creaky old ship, followed by a nervous Bethany, a distant Aveline, and Mother, tired and sad though with the tiniest amount of excitement in her eyes as she returned home.

Though Gamlen's shack wasn't what the family had expected, it provided Hawke with opportunities she wouldn't have otherwise have been presented with. A rag-tag band formed up around the young rogue and the most unusual friendships grew during the years of watching each other's backs; within the first two years of Hawke's arrival she had been involved in most of the situations that later become the foundations for some of the biggest disasters and changes in the city (along with a fair amount of personal turmoil).

"Many happy congratulations, Lady Viscountess!" a voice called from above. Hawke cringed slightly, but turned and gave a little wave to the young woman who was leaning out of her window. She must have been in her earlier twenties, wearing a white nightgown and matching frilly cap. At her age, Hawke had been convinced by her brother to join the military and frilly caps weren't in abundance at Ostagar. Though it may have been a catastrophe when King Cailin's army marched against the rotting monsters, Hawke's mind never dwelt too long on the battle itself. The avoidance of the memories were most likely to do with stress or trauma, however, not one to admit weakness easily, she put it down to bloodlust and being 'in the moment'. Whatever the case, the Champion preferred remembering the comrades she fought beside by the time they spent together before the major clash against the Darkspawn. Drinks were passed around plentifully and men and women would compare combat techniques, brag about the families they had waiting for them and compete with each other in drinking, arm wrestling and gambling games.

_9:30 Dragon, Ostagar (Ferelden)_

_A heavy fist slammed heavily down on the wooden table causing the strong alcoholic contents of multiply resting mugs to leap up and splash back down violently. The heavy fist belonged to a heavier man, his neck nearly the same size as his shoulders._

"_You calling me a liar, squirt?" he slurred, a little dribble catching in his beard. "I've 'bin hacking heads off before your mother popped you out!" Hawke couldn't help but smirk as she watched Carver from across the table turn even paler than usual. He was stringing together a defence, determined to prove to the other soldiers he wasn't going to be intimidated._

"_I probably should step in." Hawke said, turning back towards the mercenary who'd been feeding her mugs of ale all evening. She noticed he hadn't drunk any himself, only talked and laughed and watched her get drunker._

"_Probably. Are you going to?" An unfamiliar accent rolled against his words. She grinned and shook her head, almost swooning when he returned it with a slight smile of his own, narrowing his greyish eyes and running a hand through deep auburn hair… she stopped herself before she worked herself up any further. "You usually fight your brother's fights for him, though?"_

"_Only when he's a minute away from getting his arse handed to him, though usually stepping in doesn't mean getting physical."_

"_You are good to him. He is lucky to count you as a sister."_

"_We have another sister as well… back home. Her name is Bethany."_

"_She is not a fighter then, not like you?"_

"_She's…" Hawke chewed her words for a second. She would never be drunk enough to reveal Bethany's secret. "She is, just in a different way." The mercenary appeared contented, he seemed as if he preferred vague answers and riddles anyway. Most of his answers to Hawke's questions had been of that sort: I fight on foreign land for the enemy will not stop at borders… Coin is not as important as you believe… To die for this cause would be better than to die without purpose._

_Distracted by her conversation with the striking warrior, Hawke hardly noticed a different voice floating from the end of the table where Carver's standoff with the burly soldier had been. It was a soft voice, humorous and female. Glancing briefly over, Hawke caught a glimpse of a dark haired dwarf, armed and armoured in rusted equipment. Her face was marked with three black tattoos, though the patterns were distorted by an easy smile. Hawke stared curiously as the dwarf shook hands with both Carver and the large man he'd offended, until she was interrupted by four fingertips placed softly on the back of her hand._

"_It is getting late." The mysterious warrior murmured. Hawke hummed in agreement, lightly brushing his fingers with the back of her thumb. Quietly, both humans slipped away towards the empty section of tents, far from where most the others were drinking. A stern looking, ginger haired officer raised an eyebrow but said nothing as they passed further into the camp._

_Tumbling themselves into a small vacant tent, both fighters began to undress each other, sharing warmth and intensifying already heated kisses with each movement made. At that time, Hawke had no idea that she had passed on her chance to meet the future Hero of Ferelden to share herself with a stranger._

"_I've just realised I don't actually know your name." She said in a hushed giggle, tangling her hand in his hair. His lips were pressed down on her neck so the response was quiet, but the foreign words were unmistakable._

"_I am Tal-Vashosh." He replied._

Hawke found her face growing warm from the unexpected memory and placed the back of her gauntlet against her cheeks. The cold steel felt refreshing as her feet led her further into the darkness and hopefully towards something else unexpected. With luck a fight. She suddenly had an urge to get rid of some tension.


	2. Chapter Two: Old and New Faces

A/N: Don't you just love bitch slapping minor characters for no reason? Wait that sounds harsh. There is a reason, it makes the story more interesting (well that was the intent). More minor character beat downs and alternative universe gooiness. Still rated T because I'm sure no one over the T for Teen mark will be traumatised by naughty words.

**Chapter Two: Old and New Faces**

**9:38 Dragon, Kirkwall (The Free Marches)**

There was a familiar crackling in Hawke's ears, a dangerous sound that forced her eyes open and towards the source. A ball of white lightning was growing no more that a few foot steps away, bright tendrils snapping at the ground and advancing towards her. Gathering the material tangled around her ankles, she scrambled forward to remove herself from the blast radius as the volatile spell grew and to get a better view of her surprise attacker.

Hawke had been on her way to a formal party hosted by Lord Brose to celebrate four years since the 'defeat' or, as some of the more informed would call it 'the less than amicable departure', of the Qunari. The Champion had tried not to think too hard about what the party was commemorating and promised herself she would just try to enjoy the fancy food and the company of the more eccentric (interesting) nobles as she dressed herself that evening; a simple long-sleeved cream gown, made from silk that felt as soft as it was expensive. Unashamedly proud of looking rather nice, Hawke had left for the Brose estate, unaccompanied and unafraid. The large home of Lord, Lady and the three young Broses was only a few minutes walking distance in the dimness of the evening, nothing she hadn't done hundreds of times before. She hadn't, however, counted on a mage leaping out from behind a corner, screaming about 'The Murderous Viscountess of Kirkwall' and unleashing numerous lightning attacks on a startled Hawke…

The detonation of the ball of lightening sent sparks crashing outwards before dispersing. The mage must have been exhausted after the flood of attacks that had been released and Hawke seized her chance. Grabbing a small dagger from it's holster on her calf, she leapt over the crates she had taken cover behind and made a charge for the hooded figure, slicing his forearm just before he could conjure yet more lightening.

He shrieked, falling to his knees and cradling his arm to his chest protectively. Hawke placed the knife at his throat, frowning as she heard soft sobbing from beneath her attacker's hood. Gently, she pushed it back with her free hand revealing a soft, dark face cracked from forehead to chin by an angry looking scar.

Hawke was silent for a few seconds, her fury melting away, "Alain?" his name came out more in a whisper but the boy's head rose to meet her pitying eyes with his own teary set.

"Serah Hawke…" He managed to spit her name though he trembled as he continued to speak, "I should of known it wouldn't be that easy."

"To kill me you mean." Alain only stared back up, still embracing his injured arm. A few more seconds past with Hawke's knife still at the young Mage's throat before she lowered her arm. Alain recoiled, shutting his eyes as he expected a final blow to end his life. Instead, the Champion cut the top of her slightly singed sleeve and pulled it off her arm completely. The makeshift bandage was wrapped tightly around the whimpering boy's arm, his eyes growing larger with every tug until Hawke had stopped the bleeding to the best of her ability. "I know why you attacked…" she eventually continued.

"Because you killed all my friends." Alain replied unflinchingly. And it was true. It was a nasty piece of business that Hawke had hoped she would eventually forget, but the open declaration was a slap to the face that reminded her just how much she had suppressed her guilt. She wasn't going to let the boy know that though. Hawke prodded his injured arm causing him to let out an indignant squeal.

"Yeah, who? The Bloodmages on the Wounded Coast who kidnapped my friend, tried to kill me, murdered a Templar…"

"In… in the Mage's Tower! Y-you know who I meant!"

"And you know what caused that? A mass murder committed _by_ a Mage. It didn't justify anything: not getting back at Templars or annulling the Tower, but in the end it didn't even matter because pretty much everyone went crazy anyway," Alain was back to being teary once again. Part of Hawke wanted to hug him, part of her wanted to shake him. She gently lowered her voice, "I'm going to take you back to the Tower now."

"N-no!" he blurted, choking on a sob. "You don't know what it's like! It was a prison, we weren't allowed to write to our families or, or anyone, or step out of line in the slightest. And Ser K-k-k…"

"Karras. I know what he did, Alain… He's still under inspection. Knight-Commander Cullen is running things fairly now." _Fair_er was the word the Champion really wanted to use.

"But what if he's allowed back?"

"He won't be." _He might be_. Alain hung his head, obviously tired and drained of mana. It was an admission of defeat. Sometimes Hawke hated how bloody gullible some people were. She pulled his good arm over her shoulders to support his weight and they set out towards the docks to receive passage to the Gallows. "You know, I don't think anyone will mess with you now anyway… the scar makes you look damn tough."

Alain looked up and smiled a weak, sad smile.

* * *

Passage to the Gallows had been time consuming and saying 'no' to the multiply tranquil that had offered her tea had taken nearly as long; Hawke would no doubt be arriving late to the festivities. The boat beneath her creaked rhythmically with the roll of each wave against the sides, accompanied by gentle splashing of the steady draw the paddles. Her head was tightly between her knees, groaning whenever a particularly strong wave rocked the small vessel. She'd kept a composed veneer while accompanying Alain (the last thing she wanted was for an anxious mage to see her weakness), but the return trip was just Hawke and the old sailor rowing who looked more creaky than his boat.

"You look greener than my wife's big toe before it had to be lopped off!" the old man cackled. "Funny story that: it was last summer and she done stepped on something and musta made it angry. Next thing we realise, there's this stench, like rotting egg-" Hawke groaned angrily from between her knees as if to say 'Shut it, old man, before I vomit all over your boat.' He cackled again, obviously finding the Viscountess's suffering amusing. No doubt he'd be telling his big-toeless wife later. "Ah, sorry m'lady, I take it you forgot to wear your sea legs under than fancy dress? Try sitting up straight, look forward, towards the Chantry."

"I'm not very religious." Hawke mumbled, clenching her fists around the loose fabric of her dress. The old sailor cackled a second time.

"Neither's me wife, but she says it always helps to look where she's going to keep herself well."

"Poignant." Hawke remarked, the seasickness turning her words a little more venomous than the old man deserved. He didn't seem to take mind however. He chattered all the way back to the docks; more about his wife, his sons, his disowned daughter and her marriage to an elf (he spat over board at the end of that story). Hawke was too busy concentrating on the floor to listen too intently but tried to make acknowledging sounds when she was asked 'Can you believe that?' or 'It's an outrage, don't you agree?'.

When the small boat knocked against the steps of the docks, wood grinding against stone was the most magnificent sound the Champion had ever heard. She rolled out clumsily until she was sprawled on her back, the bottom of her gown soaking in the water. The sailor cackled for a final time and said something about getting home and asked if she would be alright. A confirmatory groan was all she responded and eventually it was just Hawke looking up at the stars with only the gentle lapping of the waves to keep her company. She waited until her head had stopped spinning and her stomach had stopped churning until she attempted manoeuvring again. Dragging her legs up underneath her, she stood wobbling slightly, before regaining her balance and taking in a lungful of salty air.

It was colder now that she was closer to the ocean, though her sleeveless arm only covered itself in gooseflesh when she past the disused compound that had once housed the Qunari. It was a domineering sight, in part for it's high walls painted black with shadows, but primarily for what it represented. At this very time four years ago she would be suffering appalled looks from one or two of her friends, yet less than a few hours before that they were all looking to her to pull a solution to save an entire city out of her arse.

_9:34 Dragon, Kirkwall (The Free Marches)_

_If Aveline and Isabela were in the same room it meant an argument, so as a tired Champion returned home she wasn't too surprised to find the two women at each other's throats. What she was surprised about was when the tension between the two was redirected and she was bombarded with their problems._

"_I'm trying to keep the city from rioting against the Qunari!" The Guard Captain said firmly to the pirate. Isabela's eyes darted away as she considered her next words._

"_Well… there's a chance it _may_ be related…" Vague and cautious were Isabela's specialties (amongst _other_ things if you asked around), and try and she might, Hawke couldn't pry the whole truth from the Rivaini._

"_Fine, Isabela, we'll do things your way." She sighed heavily, looking to Aveline with apologetic eyes. The pirate's face noticeably relaxed, smiling at Hawke with a look she'd never seen before. It was… touching. They'd not seen eye to eye on a lot of things, most notably Hawke's compulsive need to help everyone which had been the origin of Isabela's 'the Champion pathologically can't say no so once she…' stories (visiting the Hanged Man after one of those had been told was always a delight)._

"_You really trust her this much?" Aveline asked in disbelief. Hawke caught an immediate 'no' in her throat._

The Brose's estate could be seen streets away from the light that flooded out the windows of every floor. Hawke was grateful that it would mean no more Mages jumping out from the Hightown shadows. On her approach the two door guards stared at her with puzzled expressions but mumbled a greeting and allowed her inside. Warmth filled her bones as she stepped into the bright hallway. Candles adorned the walls, each burning strong and turning the room into an orange paradise. She made her way in the largest room housing the main entertainment, moving past multiply (and oddly silent) nobles, each nodding her way when she made eye contact though with slight confusion clouding their faces. Finding Lord Brose would probably be the proper action to take, though Hawke was still guessing a lot when it came to fancy company. Instead, she spied the Lady of the house first. Close enough.

"Lady Brose!" Hawke called enthusiastically. The new wife of Lord Brose was younger than the last but still older than Hawke by at least ten years. She had coiled her thick black hair into a braid that swirled around in patterns on top of her head, no doubt a the process had been time consuming.

"Viscountess Hawke! A pleasure to see you. You look…" there was a pause as the black haired woman looked her up and down quickly, her smile unchanging but her eyes filling with uncertainty. "Very unique!" She eventually managed. Hawke did her best to smile back. Everyone was acting odd… _maybe they were all Antivan_? She though. _Antivans are odd…_ "Lady Cole, Sir Olsvin? Allow me to introduce the Viscountess Hawke. Not only our illustrious ruler, but Kirkwall's very own Champion." Sir Olsvin grinned, obviously a bit drunk, his eyes were bloodshot and his nose was a deep red streaked with purple veins, but he shook Hawke's hand vigorously. Lady Cole was young, no older than twenty, with pretty features posed in a cool stare.

"M'lady," the young woman curtsied. Her blue eyes flashed over Hawke in bored sort of way. "Clever of you to dress as both a warrior and a diplomat." It took a few seconds for the Champion to register what that meant. Her own eyes gazed down to where the young woman's blue set had travelled and was confronted by blood stains, rips and singed fabric. _Oh_.

"Oh, yes, I am very… clever," Hawke cringed. "Excuse me." She said, quickly exiting her present company in search of a mirror and some water.

* * *

The Viscountess flung herself into the upstairs washroom, a room almost as big as Gamlen's entire shack though with much nicer decorations: panelled walls painted gold and white, a large elegant divider of twisted wire and painted canvas, and thankfully a bucket of water next to a bowl and a mirror. The plan was to scrub the blood stains out, though on closer inspection that seemed unlikely. Alain had bled more than Hawke had realised and though she hoped he was alright, her current concern was that he'd left a large round mark under her arm around most of her waist, not to mention the missing sleeve or greenish salt water stains. Not to be beaten, Hawke splashed a handful of water onto the largest part of the dried blood anyway and began to scrub. With luck she could get away with rubbing it into a pink colour and pass it off as a pattern.

"Why won't you come out?" she grumbled angrily to her discoloured gown, remembering the rich cream colour it had been but a few hours ago.

"I didn't want to interrupt." Hawke yelped and spun around, instinctively groping for her dagger; she had enough of surprises for one evening. A noble man stepped from behind the divider, his expression between amusement and nervousness. He must have been a little older than thirty though he had a boyish glint in his set of murky blue eyes, a set that was now locked onto a muddy, bloody and irregularly dressed Hawke.

"Do you usually hide in washrooms? Wait for women to come up and bathe?" she snapped defensively.

"Do you usually take baths in other people's houses? Wait to sneak into a fancy party to grab a yearly wash?" he countered. Hawke might have taken offence but looking the state she did in that moment and now clutching a dagger, she was only surprised he hadn't run screaming for help.

"I was invited." Was all she could mumble as she holstered her small weapon.

"And you turned up looking like that? Did you loose a bet or something?" he frowned, folding his arms, the garish orange material of his shirt clinging to his shoulders.

"Coming from a man wearing that? I could ask the same of you." It was his turn to look uncomfortable. He glanced down at his odd lime green and orange ensemble with distaste.

"I didn't have much of a choice. It was the only clothing my hosts had available." It reaffirmed Hawke's inkling that he wasn't from Kirkwall. She was pretty sure his accent was Ferelden.

"I didn't either. You know how it goes when someone starts bleeding on you…" There was an uncertain silence, neither of them knowing what to say next. "Sorry if I ruined your piss."

"Excuse me?" the man asked in disbelief.

"I just mean I'm sorry if I interrupted while you were pissing. I mean, it must have been quite a good one for you to get so arsy after I walked in." The man's brow had furrowed and his mouth was almost hanging open.

"I'm sorry, but are you sure you were invited?"

"I'm not giving you a great impression of Kirkwall nobles, am I?" The Champion snorted, reaching forward to shake the man's hand. "Apologies. I'm Natalie. Of both Amell and Hawke." His eyebrows rose slightly, but he took her hand gently.

"The Champion. That explains the…" he gestured at her in general and Hawke caught another laugh in her throat. "I'm Teryn Aedan Cousland of Highever, it is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Viscountess."


	3. Chapter Three: A Noble's Interlude

A/N: Original title for this chapter was 'Mmm, Delicious Foreshadowing'. Hawke needs to stop being such a word hog. Have some alternative universe Couslands for a while. They're organic and fat free! Now you can also follow where the heck stuff is going on by grabbing a map of Thedas and a pen and drawing smiley faces on the locations the Qunari have sailed between or just seeing how easily Kirkwall and Highever could play Morse Code eye-spy from across the sea.

**Chapter Three: A Noble's Interlude**

**9:36 Dragon, Highever (Ferelden)**

Snow had blanketed the large mass of empty land that was far enough inland to be untouched by salt spray and uninterrupted by the scream of gulls. The trees that stood around the edges were tall and thick, their tops powdered white while their trunks created a contrasting dark wall beneath. No farmer would arrive to pick crops to plant seeds until the spring, the common folk were living off the decent harvest the Maker had blessed Highever with that year and until the sun melted away the deep layer of snowfall, the field would remain a peaceful scene.

"TAKE A PISS INNIT!" the sudden shattering of tranquillity caused hundreds of black birds to rumble from the tree tops, escaping the bawdy laughter that followed.

"GU'WAN! DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!" three of the four male intruders chanted, each of them carrying a skin of ale and staggering across the icy dirt track towards their untouched prize.

"Gentlemen, please! I am a Teryn! I will not lower myself to your vulgar requests!" the man in the centre replied mockingly with a thick slur, undoing the front of his breeches with one hand and swigging from his ale skin with the other. He shuffled his way off the track and into the empty field, surprisingly not tripping over. "This, my friends," he called back to the other men. "Is to Anora! May her pretty white dress also be pissed on!" More coarse laughter responded as the snow changed colour.

"Sod her, m'lord!" Kip, the youngest of the drinkers, squeaked. He was only a stable boy, too afraid to say no Lord Michaels, Lord Baskly and Teryn Cousland's goads to drink an entire bucket of ale for a silver piece. How he ended up on their 'hunting' trip that followed, he couldn't quite remember.

"Aye, sod her, sod your brother and sod their bloody wedding!" Lord Baskly added before crashing to the ground on all fours, defiling the fresh snow further as he puked up the last four hours worth of drink. Kip remembered his mother talking about Fergus Cousland's and Queen Anora's wedding as if she had been personally invited. She'd said Anora would be as beautiful as Andraste herself and Fergus would make an excellent King Consort.

"Waste of ale, Baskly you light weight!" Lord Michaels sniggered. "And Cousland, put that away before it drops off in the cold," Michaels looked up at the darkening sky and then back to his companions. "Come on boys. We should be heading back anyway…"

"Right now they'd be having their blighted feast!" the Teryn interrupted, staggering in a slight circle. "With roast duck and honeyed leeks and a spit boar-" His feat finally gave way and he found himself face down in the snow, still grumbling incoherently about food.

"Up we get, Aedan." a quickly sobering Lord Michaels said, pulling his friend to his feet. The Teryn leant heavily on the charitable shoulder.

"…and roast potatoes…"

"And roast potatoes," Michaels looked over towards Kip, who had done little more than stare. "Come lend a hand, kid," A startled Kip rushed forward to offer assistance, catching his foot on stiff lump of iced dirt and tumbling over. Lord Michaels sighed to himself as he dragged his friend back towards the keep by him self.

"…and glazed ham…" the Teryn muttered.

_9:34 Dragon, Highever (Ferelden)_

_The coastal hunting trail was teeming with game in the afternoon sun. Though the air had a bitter edge Aedan was sweating underneath his layers of fur and mail. Only his nose was gnawed at by cold as he stormed down the thin mud path aback his grey mare, thickly built and surprisingly quick Mabari at his side. Both man and dog were perusing a certain beautiful creature all day, but she had easily avoided them, travelling the remote, scenic paths along with her pack. Aedan had last caught sight of her on the path below and it had taken him a while to wheel his horse around and find a suitable route down. Now though, he could hear her ahead of him._

_She was laughing with her maid, the Orlesian elf, and a noble woman Aedan didn't recognise, the three accompanied by seven guardsmen, two flying banners as they rode. The party were traversing the hill ahead and Lord Cousland was not about to loose her again. He kicked his heels into his mare and bolted forward, the powerful horse making light work of the ascent as she rushed past the guards, spooking one horse and causing the unknown noble woman to squeal._

"_Lord Cousland," Anora called as her party halted. "I'd say what a surprise but I saw you on the track above us a few times." A smirk was playing softly on her lips._

"_I didn't intend to surprise you, Your Majesty," Aedan called back grinning like an excited boy. "I just wanted to catch you."_

"_Oh?" the smirk had grown, now obvious to all. "And what did you intend to do when you caught me?" the Lord held back his suggestions, but she must have seen something in his features as she cocked an eyebrow and shook her head. "We were thinking of heading back to your brother's castle. Will you join us?" Aedan ignored the sting of Highever being referred to as his brother's. It had always been so, but that didn't make it easier. Instead he agreed eagerly._

_The Queen's party continued north-west inland and back towards Highever as Aedan Cousland galloped slightly ahead, showing off the speed of his mare while catching glances at Anora when he could. They weren't far off the gates when another party met them, the guards carrying the heraldry of Highever on their shields, where as the group leader carried the Cousland design. "Fergus?"_

"_Ah, little brother. There you are," Fergus was armoured and his guards were heavily armed. "Your Majesty. We were on our way back out to the coast."_

"_Teryn Cousland. Is there a problem?" Anora queried, a look of concern spreading across her features._

"_No, no. Not anymore, it's nothing to worry about now…" the Queen's expression was a clear order for him to continue. "There were ships spotted heading in from the north. Quite a few in fact, though they have sailed too far east to cause trouble in our docks. We believe they were just swinging around, likely heading towards the open ocean," Fergus scratched his brown stubble. "Though, we're riding out to make sure they do head that way. You're welcome to join us, Your Majesty. You'll be more than safe," he knocked on his chest plate twice and winked. "And we'll have a clear view as they pass."_

"_Oh, that does sound a lovely sight, my Queen." The elf cooed musically in her Orlesian accent. Anora nodded in agreement._

"_It does. Lead the way, Teryn Cousland, my party will follow."_

"_Will you be coming with us, brother?" Fergus asked. Aedan looked over at the Queen, who'd already began circling her brown horse back towards the cost, before nodding in agreement. "Excellent! Let's be off shall we?"_

The room was lit with soft morning light piercing the thick layer of clouds and warmed by a low burning fire opposite the bed. Heavy blankets stuffed with goose feathers were piled on top of the exhausted Teryn, stacks of pillows propping up his limp body. Aedan tried to raise his head only to be rewarded with a splitting pain that turned his vision white.

"That's what you get for drinking in the snow, m'lord." An elderly woman was mixing something in a goblet, a clicking noise sounding whenever her stirrer hit the metal sides.

"I didn't realise you were hired to judge." Aedan grumbled shutting his eyes together tightly to block out as much light as he could. _Click, click, click_.

"No, but I was hired to advise and I'm advising that drinking in the snow will give you a pain in the head." _Click, click._

"It's a bit late for that warning." _Click, click, click, click._

"It's not a warning, its advice. You sometimes heed warnings. Advice? Well, not so much," _Click, click_. "Here. Drink," The edge of the goblet was place between his lips and the contents poured into Aedan's mouth before he could summon a protest. He spluttered on the last drop before slumping his head back against the pillow. "There. Not so bad, mm?"

"Worse." The potion the old sage mixed up was usually very effective so the Teryn kept his complaints to a minimum, though it usually took an hour to help with the headaches meaning he was stuck with her for at least that long.

"Some riders arrived while you were asleep. By their word the wedding was beautiful," Aedan didn't reply. "It's a shame you didn't go. They said there must have been thousands of guests," He shut his eyes tighter, trying to will himself to sleep, "Anora looked-"

"I bet she looked lovely," He interrupted in a soft voice. His eyes flicked open and he found himself looking up at the wise face of the herbalist. "Thank you for the remedy Alice, but I'd rather sleep for a bit longer." She nodded gently with a pitying look plaguing her face before shuffling towards a quilted chair near the fireplace on the other side of the room.

"I'll be here if you need to talk, m'lord." She added softly. Aedan shut his eyes and tried to sleep once again.

"_There! I can see them!" Anora shouted, pointing into the distance with one hand and gripping her horse's reins with the other. Her thick velvet gown billowed out at her wrists and the loose fabric snapped in the wind. Anora's fingers were gloved in brown leather and it took a fair amount of force for Aedan's eyes to pull themselves past her elegant digits and catch sight of what she was directing the group to._

_Sure enough, there were the ships._

"_Fifty or so, I'd say." Called a grizzled voice from the group of Fergus's soldiers._

"_It sure looks like they're heading this way." Another, younger and more concerned sounding voice added._

"_Nah, boy. They're too far past the docks to be able to land. See? They're turning north-east to east. We'll get a pretty view but nothing to shit your pants about." _

_It took a full hour before the Highever party got the view they hoping for. Four dreadnoughts were at the head of fleet, pulling round in unified line and followed by numerous smaller, yet just as intimidating, ships. Their synchronised precision was impressive and unsettling at the same time._

"_Are they…?"_

"_Sure looks like it."_

"_What are that many doing this far south?"_

"_I hear there were a bunch of them stranded in Kirkwall. Must have finally got their ships to take them home."_

"_But they're leaving," Fergus finally interjected. "Are you telling me all those Qunari ships made it to Kirkwall _recently_ without Highever Watch even taking notice?" The guards looked at each other tensely._

"_Maybe they sailed in a slimmer formation or closer to the Free Marches' coast," a female soldier suggested. "Just look at their accuracy, it wouldn't have been hard."_

"_Oh, suddenly I feel so much better." Someone else commented sarcastically._

"_I'll make a report of this when we return to Denerim." The Queen said firmly. "Coastal watches need to be on higher alert if an entire fleet can sail along the Waking Sea undetected." Fergus gave her a nod of agreement; his horse had pulled up close to her side._

_The soldiers were still discussing the red sails in the distance, sharing speculation and rumours they had heard about the black windows along the sides of each Qunari ship, able to shoot fire. Aedan joined the gossip for a while, laughing at some of the more outlandish theories involving catapulted mages. It was only when he looked up and saw Fergus and Anora's hands touch did he stop laughing._


	4. Chapter Four: The Compound

A/N: _Memmmmm-mories, all alone in the mooo-ooonlight_… Some more Hawke and Cousland, new characters and a lot of reminiscence. It's a bit longer than previous chapters but I doubt juice and energy bars will be required.

**Chapter Four: The Compound**

**9:39 Dragon, Kirkwall (The Free Marches)**

**Present Day**

"My lady, **please**, you must breathe in more!" The Orlesian woman's accent rung at a glass shattering pitch as she pulled at the lace backing with surprising strength for a fifth time. "You must breathe!"

"I won't be able to if you keep doing thaaa-!" The sixth time pulled a strangled wail from Hawke's throat as she swung her arms around violently and catching an elbow on the bedpost. The Orlesian blushed as her employer let out a string of curses in response. "Forget it," she sighed after her explicit vent. "I'm not wearing it."

"But, my lady, you'll look so regal!"

"I'll look so purple when I'm prevented from breathing." The argument 'being able to survive' fell on deaf ears as Orana's replacement insisted they try once more to squeeze a lithely muscled Hawke into a wedding gown that seemed to be designed for a curvaceous bride with an impossibly thin waist. The discussion ended when Hawke threw the dress of out the window and into the street below, a smug look crossing her face as she watched her temporary lady in waiting suck back some Orlesian curse words of her own.

"Would my lady like me to arrange another fitting?" she asked frostily.

"As long as the dressmaker can make something that won't double as an instrument of torture, sure."

Hawke was losing her patience; she had thought that Gilley Dupont was a perfect replacement after she took up the duties of both Bodahn and Orana with ease, sweeping and folding and washing without complaint. The relationship had started to fray however when the woman had thrown out most of Hawke's clothes. Apparently it was a custom amongst the nobles in Orlais that took place when a new season rolled around, invented so they wouldn't be caught owning old designs. It had been downhill from there.

Gilley was in the process of picking something suitable for a Viscountess to wear for the rest of the day (say whatever else about the woman, she did have taste), when her attentions were turned towards the familiar sound of creaking leather and belts being buckled. "My lady is planning on fighting today?"

"Your lady hopes so." Hawke replied, thankful she was able to dress without having to scavenge around her estate for her armour. Gilley didn't bother to suppress her disapproving mutterings anymore.

"Mais oui… Et demain nousporterons pas leschaussures et nousporterons fringues…"

"…What does 'chaussures' mean?"

"Um, shoes, my lady." Gilley to flush slightly as she refolded the deep green day dress she had chosen.

"Should have guessed," A fully armoured Hawke replied dryly. "So, with no dress to alter I take it we're done here? Good." She marched towards the bedroom door hastily.

"You have a meeting with the builders to discuss the renovation of dockyard compound at midday." Gilley reminded, halting the Champion before she could exit the room.

"Push it back."

"But you're having lunch with Lord and Lady Bridley after."

"Then push that back as well."

"And you'll be hearing evening intelligence reports after that still."

"Which can be pushed back."

"And your tasting session with the wedding caterers tonight?"

"Is there a chance I could still fit them in after the intelligence reports?" Hawke pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Yes. Go to meet with the builders to discuss the renovations of the dockyard compound at midday," Gilley had her hands on her hips, ever so slightly emulating Leandra Amell's disapproving stare she used when a young Hawke had refused to brush her hair or had come home caked in mud. It sent shivers down the Champions spine. "That way you can do everything you had planned in the first place."

Hawke yielded gracelessly, throwing up her arms, before redressing in the green gown that the pleased looking Orlesian maid had previously picked out. The soft fabric was easy to move in though the delicate pearl buttons that trailed along the back would no doubt fall off easily under strain. Hawke made a note to really try and avoid any violent confrontations unless she wanted her breasts to burst out during a somersault. It could be a surprising distraction to attackers, though it was one she had no wish of trying out.

Gilley was wresting with the tangle of dark gold hair that Hawke had quickly scrunched into a ponytail that morning as they both sat in front of Lady Elegant's mirror. At that moment it was reflecting a pained looking Champion trying to read a report from the Bank of Kirkwall regarding the city's low funds.

"Be gentle, it's my first time with an Orlesian." Hawke remarked in an innocent voice. Gilley continued with a huff, raking her comb repeatedly through her mistress's hair until it settled in soft waves. She was about to begin braiding it when Hawke stood up abruptly, throwing down the report she'd been analysing. "Ok, I've finished reading about how much money we haven't got. Let's go talk to some builders about building something entirely impractical and expensive!"

"Yes, my lady. Though we have a little time before they'll arrive at the docks. I thought the wedding dress alterations would have taken longer." Gilley looked at the window which the gown had been tossed out of.

"Let's go anyway. I need some air, and I bet Chief does too," Hawke descended the stairs towards the door with Gilley in toe. "He needs more fresh air to keep him springy now he's getting on a bit, don't you old guy?" the Mabari gave a confused whine but followed the Champion and her maid out into the busy morning streets.

_9:39 Dragon, The Wounded Coast (The Free Marches)_

_Two Months Earlier_

"_He doesn't know how to fetch?" Hawke asked incredulously._

"_He's a war dog. Not a performing clown."_

"_Oh, and Chief is a performing clown?" The two Mabaris were currently rolling around together in the sand, playfully snapping at each other as their masters walked along the coast._

"_No. But you've treated him like one by teaching him to do so."_

"_Playing fetch keeps him exercised. It's not like I trained him to stand on his hind legs and shimmy for titbits." The Teryn of Highever gave her a curious look before continuing to stare forwards. He had a bow slung over his shoulder and was dressed in his grey leathers: a chest piece heavily decorated with vines meeting in the middle to form a wreath (the Cousland's family crest), and a skirt of thick leather strips down to his knees. Ever since Lord Brose's party and both of their embarrassing states of dress, Hawke and Aedan had usually only met in their armour. A few social parties were the exception, one in which Hawke commented she had seen him in a skirt more often than he had her. Hawke's own gear consisted of deep brown leather leggings she had well worn in from her jumps and cartwheels, a thick, dark coat with a rich fur trim and metal girdle, trailed with grey wool and decorated with silver clasps, grey stitching and twisted chord, while faded orange and white material covered her joints to allow movement._

"_So when are you next returning to Highever?" Hawke asked in an attempt to create conversation. Though the pair got on well enough she found that the Teryn Cousland was not a very talkative guy; not nearly as chatty as herself at least. She kicked a small rock sending it skittering across the sandy path ahead._

"_Four days," he replied, "Actually, I was meaning to ask. I thought you could join me, if you'd like. Hunting season is rich on the Ferelden coast," Hawke remembered the passage to Kirkwall and being cooped up in the small, rank smelling hold. She scrunched up her face in disgust as the memories of seasickness took hold. "You know, a simple 'no' would have sufficed." She looked up at the Teryn, his face wrinkled into an unimpressed frown._

"_Oh, no, I wasn't doing…" she made a scrunched up face again, "_that_ at the thought of Highever! It's just me and the sea… we don't really work well together, that's all."_

"_I see," Aedan paused. "Is that the real reason you didn't attend the royal wedding? I remember you saying your Uncle had died." The Champion suppressed a snort._

"_Yeah, my Uncle is still kicking alright. I'm just a dirty liar who is ashamed of being afraid of water," she admitted with a sigh. "I actually wanted to go a little. I heard it was a lovely event. Your brother must have been pleased, I mean it's not often there's a high profile wedding between two people who actually seem to care about each other." The Teryn's jaw clenched noticeably._

"_Yes. Well," The silence that followed lasted quite sometime though Hawke didn't mind. She knew she had probably said something wrong but it wasn't as if it was the firs time she'd done so. Chief made his way back to Hawke's side, probably aware of the awkward tension, and presented her with a drool covered stick. She picked it up, thankful for her gloved hands, and threw it ahead of them, watching the dog bound off happily. "He's much bigger than Mather." Aedan finally commented, breaking the silence._

_He was right. The Cousland Mabari was large though it was mostly fat. Mather was strong only from casual hunting trips and had not one scar to blemish his pristine coat. The Hawke Mabari was a different case: he was covered in scuffs from various fights and was half a size larger. He was a dog that was more used to mauling men than retrieving game._

"_He sure is a bruiser," Hawke agreed. "You should see him fight a dragon… he can take down a little one easy." She was smiling, expecting to look up and find her companion in awe but instead he had a sad, far away look in his eye._

"_You fight dragons often?"_

"_Only when they breathe fire at me first."_

"_I've always wanted to fight a dragon," Aedan said slowly, still contemplating the horizon. Hawke expected another awkward silence but eventually he continued. "I've always thought that I was meant for more. To fight dragons and… be a champion."_

"_Well you sure are skilled. I've seen you practise shooting at the docks. Were you not in the army? For Ostagar I mean." The Teryn sucked his teeth._

"_I was. Fergus and I both. We left ahead of our father and were scouting during the main battle. You know how that turned out."_

"_Yeah," Hawke nodded with a frown. "My brother and I made it out. Barely."_

"_Eventually, we came across a large group that overwhelmed us. I remember thinking I was going to die." His memories had clouded his eyes. Deep blue pools frosted over. Hawke thought he looked more distant than ever._

"_But you obviously didn't. Did you? You're not a walking corpse are you?" She prodded him in the arm gently. His eyes finally regained a semblance of focus as he looked down at her with a half smile. _

"_Some Chasind woman found us, nursed us back to health. We woke up months later, when the Blight was over…" he laughed dryly. "We slept through the Blight. It makes a fear of water seem kind of small now, doesn't it?"_

"_I'd say that's a good thing. Blights are ugly," Hawke nudged him with a shoulder and winked. "But you keep my secret and I'll keep yours."_

Hawke was becoming increasingly glad she wasn't wrapped up in her tight armour as she felt the sun gently massage her shoulders. She'd forgotten what a tolerably warm day could feel like. Kirkwall usually kept to extremes: either it was hot enough to fry an egg outside or it was so cold shadows started freezing to the pavements. The Champion was in a blissful daze, ignorant of the people around her; they blurred together like a rich, colourful smoke.

Hawke, Gilley and Chief had been milling around the dockland market for some time. It was now past midday and the Orlesian lady in waiting was more irritated than the Viscountess, who instead was enjoying browsing a handmade jewellery stall run by an elf with what looked like Dalish tattoos.

"They should not keep you waiting like this. It is outrageous. Do they think you do not have a schedule?"

"Isn't it just? I'm a very busy woman after all, I mean, first I'm meeting with some builders to talk about buildings or something, then I'm having lunch with some people, and then I'm doing some other stuff…" she trailed off, just as Gilley was shaking her soft black curls in exasperation, and fixed her eyes onto a man in the distance, surrounded by eight soldiers in neat formation. He was at a distance but there was no mistaking that he was looking directly at her, his hands overlapped on his robed stomach and his head was slightly bowed.

"My lady? Who is that?" Gilley had moved to stand closely by her Mistress's side; her mature features were slightly wrinkled with concern.

"I don't know. Seems we are about to find out though." The man had begun approaching Hawke, his entourage moving behind him in measured steps. He was but a foot away before he offered a greeting.

"My lady Viscountess," he announced, bowing graciously, his staff bobbing as he straightened himself. "My name is Caelinus and it is my humble pleasure to meet you."

"Greetings," Hawke glanced between him and his helmeted followers. "I take it you're not from Kirkwall. I extend a warm welcome to you all." She gave a bright smile. Caelinus smiled back; whether the faceless men behind him did was unknown.

"That is most kind. Shall we begin the discussions?" The Champion stared blankly at the man. His face was easily over fifty though his hair retained a mainly black colouring with a mixture of grey strands.

"You are the builders?"

"They are the builders," he chuckled, motioning towards his uniformed followers. "I am the architect. Shall we relocate to the compound to discuss my plans?" Hawke found herself giving the man an uneasy nod. She could see Gilley out of the corner of her eye looking slightly troubled, though she followed her mistress as she led the short walk to the compound that had once held the Qunari army.

_9:34 Dragon, Kirkwall (The Free Marches)_

"_I'd wrap up any other business before we go. It's already a mess and it could get worse." Aveline's usual collected self was starting to show cracks. Hawke didn't blame her in the slightest. Isabela had waved hope in their faces and then disappeared along with the biggest tool for bargaining a peaceful agreement with the Qunari they could have hoped for. Hawke was pissed._

"_Let's go." She gritted. Aveline turned to the Kossith gate guard and requested an audience with the Arishok. Past experiences had taught the soon to be Champion of Kirkwall that almost anything could be masked with confidence so she poised herself as if the incident with Isabela had never happened._

"_He will allow it, but not in this number." Of course the Arishok knew they would be arriving; Aveline's guards had been milling around the gates all morning, waiting for Hawke and their Captain to join them. Hawke looked to both Varric then Merrill._

"_You guys can head home. We can handle this."_

"_Yeah, because how bad could things get if the compound full of militaristic giants don't like your negotiations?" Varric pointed out dryly, though keeping his voice low and turned slightly away from the gate guard._

"_Oh, I think I know this one!" Merrill chirped. Hawke shook her head and gave a reassuring smile to her companions._

* * *

_The dusty yard of the compound was even thick with tension, more so than usual. Hawke nodded at one or two of the large warriors she had dealt with in the past, only for the gestures to be returned with silent stares. Something was different, and she doubted it was just the presence city guards who followed her. Most likely the Qunari had heard about the fate of their unit sent to retrieve the Tome of Koslun – the unit Hawke and Isabela had decimated. Though she knew the killers couldn't have been identified by witnesses, Hawke was still likely to be high up on the list of suspects capable of taking them down._

_The Arishok was looking down – he was always looking down – when Hawke, Aveline and several nervous guardsmen approached. The seconds between when he first caught sight of the approaching group and his first verbal acknowledgement were achingly stretched out, adding to the tension that threatened to swallow Hawke up. He had begun descending the mountain of stairs, eyes fixed on the approaching embodiment of Kirkwall law and utterly unconcerned, propping his axe on his shoulder as if it were weightless._

"_Shanedan." The greeting was respectful, blunt and eye contact was fixed on Hawke._

"_Greetings, Arishok." Aveline was the one to answer, outlining her purpose regarding the elves in professionally, her voice level and considered._

"_Irrelevant. I would speak to Hawke about the relic stolen from my grasp." And there it was. Expectedly direct._

"_One of my former companions has it." Hawke ground out plainly. The Arishok didn't seem surprised, nodding in what could have been interpreted as a gesture of gratitude, though it was more likely he was just accepting her admission. She'd realised early on that lying to the warlord was like trying to bluff during a card game while displaying her hand. The direct and truthful method may have been Hawke's only option but it was one that had played heavily in her favour and for someone who lied casually to most everyone else, she'd almost found it liberating._

"_An issue for another time." Aveline said firmly. With the conversation steered back towards the fugitives it was then that things began to disintegrate. Aveline argued, solidifying her words with her strong belief in law, the Arishok countered, unmoved and wearing a mask of growing contempt, while Hawke kept tried to keep quiet._

"_Tell me, Hawke," she felt dread begin to twist in her stomach. "What would you do in my position?" The knot tightened. She looked at Aveline with an apologetic look, not unlike the one she'd used earlier that day concerning Isabela and her request to help her recover the relic from Wall-Eyed Sam. After today Hawke knew a lot more apologies would need to go around._

"_I wouldn't hand them over." She admitted._

"_Hawke, you're not helping." Aveline snapped, her face darkening._

"_What? I wouldn't, though!" Hawke insisted, before adding in a low hiss: "Can't you offer the elves more than 'you'll look into it'?" The Arishok's resentment radiated stronger than ever before, though Hawke did not notice the subtle change that occurred when he fully had committed to the path that had been evaded for three years._

"_Vinek kathas." A foreign order that would have doubled as an early warning, if Hawke had learnt the more Qun words from Fenris. Spears began impaling guardsmen. _

_Hawke was kicking herself as she and Aveline fled the docks. Even more apologies than previously imagined would need to go around._


	5. Chapter Five: Threats and the Thin Veil

A/N: Not much to say about this one other than it was birthed by insomnia. I've always like Fenris as a bro and wanted to add some awkward buddy time from the beginning of his and Hawke's friendship. Dat is dat den. ('Ei vento nai mordoi deid' means 'I don't want to kill you').

**Chapter Five: Threats and the Thin Veil**

**9:39 Dragon, Kirkwall (The Free Marches)**

**Present Day**

Caelinus brushed his fingers across the wall at the far end of the compound. The bones of his knuckles and joints stretched against his skin creating the appearance of a skeletal hand. His silent sentinels moved themselves into a position identical as the one they had been in when Hawke first saw the group in the market. If they were blocking the exit or moving up the steps towards where the Arishok once sat, her brain would tell her she was in danger. The arrangement they had currently adopted told her they were there to protect, not antagonise. That did not stop the Champion's gut from cautioning her and, judging from Gilley's darting eyes and wary frown, neither did the hand maid's.

"Kirkwall is a fascinating place," the strange man began. "Even if we do not include your prosperous nine years here, it's a city that can boast some of the most fantastical events in the history of Thedas."

"I wouldn't call slavery, violence and plagues 'fantastical', Serah." Hawke replied curtly, doing her best to appear relaxed as she watched him tour more of the compound.

"But I'd call their simultaneous and repeat occurrence so, my Lady," his eyes had left their study of the dusty surroundings and had locked onto Hawke's who returned the gaze without so much as a blink. "Think of how many people have lived in Kirkwall and lived through tragedies it offered. More importantly, think of how many people died here and caused those tragedies."

"The city's history is undoubtedly stained but I intend to make it's future better."

"Certainly! Why, even where I come from people have heard of the illustrious Kirkwall Viscountess. Strong of body and mind, gentle of heart," Hawke burst into fit of sniggering, while Gilley looked bewildered. Caelinus plastered a strained smile. "And of course, a natural humour."

"Mages aren't very consistent with their opinions on me. An old acquaintance of mine called me… I think he said 'murderous Viscountess of Kirkwall'. I think I'd prefer that to 'gentle of heart'," Caelinus was no longer smiling but neither did he appear concerned. "Are you an apostate or do you have authorized leave from your circle?"

"My Lady, you think I would risk entering a city where Mages are most heavily subjugated if I did not have authorization from my… 'circle'?" His hand had returned to tracing the crevices of the far wall in the compound. "I came to discuss plans for this compound's renovation, not defend myself."

"Then discuss. So far all you've talked about death and me," Hawke was folding her arms across her chest; the deep green fabric of her dress hugged her tightly. "Though I admit, those two things usually go together."

"Then I apologize. I should have made it clearer: death is apart of this city and it has not stained, it had scarred," Caelinus's voice had changed dramatically. His soft speech had been replaced with a cold directness. "There is no harm in studying a scar to learn the weapon that made it."

"You want to study the Veil in Kirkwall?" Hawke asked, unsurprised that a Mage wanted to do some crap involving magic. "Why the compound then? Why not Darktown or Lowtown. I know a foundry that loves to spew demons…"

"Death is everywhere in this city. Why not a large available space that no one else will touch, out of fear that the heathens that once populated it will sail back to cut off their heads as they did Dumar's?"

"And you don't fear them? If they returned and found you, they'd either kill you or chain you up and sew your lips together." Caelinus laughed. Hawke's probing was successful.

"They would try, my Lady. I am not without friends."

"Friends who would help build your Veil observatory? Friends with money, labourers and a fondness for magic?" The Champion cocked her eyebrow, awaiting a response. The face of the dark haired Mage had been drained of all signs of laughter and was now regarding Hawke with a calculating stare.

"The project will pay your city for your cooperation. Damages from a Qunari invasion, rebuilding an entire Chantry… these things must have been expensive and your people still starve while Hightown _statues _are repaired."

"I will not allow slave labour to corrupt the future of Kirkwall like as it had done it the past."

"Slavery will always be apart of your city. Even now we have a dozen contracts with your nobility. I believe you're even aware of the Harriman's dealings a few years back? People with the most money like to keep it that way," the man snorted. "Your over dramatic display is unbecoming of someone who shows so much promise…"

"I won't allow the Tevinter Imperium to gain anymore of a foothold in the Free Marches." The Mage and the rogue had their eyes locked together. Hawke's hand nimbly slipped behind her back to touch the pommel of her concealed dagger.

_9:32 Dragon, Kirkwall (The Free Marches)_

_Scraps of paper were spread out across the floor covered in scribbles and small pictures with arrows connecting them. The late evening sun barely lit the inside of the dilapidated mansion and Hawke's eyes were starting to strain with effort to read what she had just written down._

_"You're sure you don't have an idea how to spell that?" Hawke asked, rubbing her temple with a free hand and drawing a wobbly picture of a jug with the quill in her other._

"_I've told you, I don't know how to read," Fenris was sat on a sofa closest to the empty fireplace, his pupil hunched over on the floor in front of him. He was drinking wine from the bottle while calling out Tevinter words and what they meant. They'd been inside the abandoned mansion since when the afternoon was still warm. Now the walls radiated a chill and he could see Hawke start to grow gooseskin along her arms. "It's late. We should continue this another time."_

"_What? Not yet! I've only got enough words to talk about pottery, weapons and livestock," Hawke moaned shuffling through her notes. "You haven't even told me how to put them in a sentence."_

"_You aren't going to learn the entire Tevinter language in one afternoon, Hawke," Fenris drained the last mouthful of deep purple from his bottle and placed it on the floor with the others. "I'm opening another." Hawke didn't look up from her notes as the elf slunk off to the cellar. She was still muttering different pronunciations when he returned carrying a crate filled with ten or twelve vintages, only raising her head to see what was causing the rattling._

"_Sure you've got enough there?" She scoffed as Fenris placed his bounty on the floor, close enough to be able to reach for a drink from his sofa next to the fireplace. He didn't respond but after taking a few swigs out of a particularly dusty bottle he offered it to Hawke. "I haven't touched a drop of alcohol since that incident at the Hanged Man." She chuckled, bringing the wine to her lips and downing a heavy mouthful._

"_You were upset. Sometimes we need an outlet," The bottle was passed back to the lanky warrior who held it in his hand for half a moment before adding: "About your sister…"_

"_It's been a year. I'm better." She replied, offering a weak smile._

"_She was a good person, even for a Mage. And you handled your emotions remarkably well… apart from that one breakdown." Their conversations usually adopted clinical patterns when they spoke of personal matters, both preferring to keep their feelings defended. Fenris did so with stoicism and suspicion. Hawke did so with humour. _

"_If I end up mooning the Viscount and waking up on the Chantry roof again I'm telling Varric to write down that you were the one who gave me liquor."_

"_You never told us how you got up there." Fenris gave one his rare smiles, passing the bottle into Hawke's outstretched hands._

"_The Maker's divine light lifted me of course."_

"_Of course," He watched her stack her notes on Tevinter languages into a messy pile and swig another mouthful of wine. "What was half way to the Maker's side like then?"_

_She looked thoughtful for a moment, tapping the neck of the bottle with her free hand rhythmically as if she were about to say something poetic and meaningful. "It was pretty windy… And covered in bird shit."_

"Ei vento nai mordoi deid, Hawke." The Mage had drawn his staff and his guards had followed suit, brandishing their weapons to a growling Mabari, a terrified hand maid and an unperturbed Champion.

"Don't worry. That's not very likely." She was yet to draw her own dagger, her palm still only resting on the pommel.

"I wish to avoid a confrontation at all. I was not lying when I said people speak of you where I come from."

"I doubt they use any of pretty words you mentioned earlier though." Hawke was sizing up her opponents. The Tevinter Mage was the biggest threat but the guards weren't to be ignored. Gilley would be defenceless in a battle and the Champion had little in the way of protection herself.

"'Capable,' is common… 'Dangerous'," Whether he was trying to flatter her or make her feel overconfident, Hawke could not be sure of. The dust in the empty yard rolled in waves as the wind blew a particularly strong gust of air. "I will repeat myself Champion: I wish to avoid a confrontation. You have, most foolishly, rejected my proposition now allow me to leave with my men peacefully."

"I've had bad experiences trusting Mages."

"And so petty grudges add to your sense of callow righteousness?" the man snorted, a cruel snarl sliced into his features. The pleasant smiles he had worn earlier had now disappeared completely. "One Tevinter Magister was murdered in this city. If you make a habit of it retaliation may be in order."

"Do not threaten my city," Hawke snapped, hand tensing around the handle of her blade. She knew engaging them would end badly though it didn't make her next words any easier: "Leave. Do not return here. Neither you nor any other Magister. You are unwelcome in Kirkwall, Serah." The Mage nodded his head and his guards sheathed their swords immediately, though his own staff was still drawn his while the group made their way towards the large wooden gate.

"This has been disappointing, my Lady," politeness had returned to his voice and his smiling mask had been reattached. His skill at bluffing could easily match Varric's. "Feynriel spoke highly of you, that you were not the butcher of all Mages we'd heard of. To his credit that is partially true, though it seems you are something just as bad: short sighted." Hawke was still watching him closely for any signs of aggression. He turned just as he reached the exit to add one final insult. "Your city will bleed while you attempt to keep your already soiled hands clean."

Hawke cocked an eyebrow. _They always have to have the last word_, she thought resentfully. Her eyes continued to stare at his back until he was lost in the busy dockyard before she exhaled a lungful of air. "Well, they weren't the builders I was expecting." She finally said jovially as they joined the flow of people heading towards Hightown.

"My lady, I…" Gilley's face was plagued in uncertainty. She cleared her throat, regaining her composure. "Would you like me to cancel your lunch with the Bridleys?"

"And pass up free food? Never!" Hawke scoffed, walking at a quick pace towards the Viscount's Keep. "I need to speak to Guard Captain Aveline first, however. I want to be sure that man leaves Kirkwall. You wouldn't mind pushing the Lord and Lady back, would you?" Gilley pursed her lips together to prevent herself from smiling.

"Right away, my Lady." She gave a small curtsy before scurrying off towards the Bridley estate, leaving the Champion and her dog to head towards the keep in the pleasant midday sun.


	6. Chapter Six: Nobody's Love

A/N: Bumping the rating for awkward sexy times. Nothing too graphic yet as I don't think it'd work well with the current relationships. More for context of depressing relationships than drink spitting at monitors and fainting.

**Chapter Six: Nobody's Love**

**9:39 Dragon, Kirkwall (The Free Marches)**

**Present Day**

Her hands were cold and rough, trailing across the surface of his back with a casual disinterest that was matching her face. The wedding clothes had already been shed as if a chore, bride and groom each unbuttoning and removing their own finery before pressing their lips together for a dispassionate kiss. They had moved onto a small love-seat near the door and there they were now sat, prodding each other to find the sensitive areas each of their bodies offered before attempting to fulfil their first marital obligation. The foreplay seemed pointless; Aedan was a man with a moderately attractive, half-naked woman massaging his back (however coarsely) and it was enough to enable him to begin.

He considered his new wife, staring serenely past him with a far away look in her large dark eyes. She looked young in the current light, almost innocent though she was obviously no nervous virgin. Truth be told, it seemed as if she didn't care one way or another if they were to copulate standing on their heads or just go straight to sleep, so it was up to him to make the first move, carefully tracing his hand up the top of her thigh. They joined for another clumsy kiss that reminded Aedan of playing dares when he was younger. He wasn't a boy any more though, he thought as he groped her left breast free from the decorative corset she still wore.

"Nh-uh… ow!" Hawke wriggled backwards, breaking her mouth from his.

"Sorry…" He clenched his jaw tightly, drawing back his offending hand. She noticed the embarrassment spreading across his face and began undoing the hooks down the front of her stiff undergarment, discarding it (seemingly glad that it would be squeezing her waist no longer) and closing the gap between them once more before Aedan even had a chance to have a proper look what was underneath.

Her body felt warmer now with her bare breasts pressed against his chest. He thought of pulling her onto his lap but she had other ideas. The Champion began taking leadership of the awkward wedding night, removing the rest of her own smallclothes and doing the same with his with straightforward effectiveness. And there they were, both naked and wordlessly uncomfortable. Aedan was glad there was still a fire crackling away otherwise the Hawke estate bedroom would have been no sound to speak of at all. Night had fallen and so the fire was also the only source of heat and light, bathing the two in a complimentary orange glow.

"So," she whispered. Whether it was to her new husband or just to herself was unclear. "What now?"

_9:39 Dragon, Kirkwall (The Free Marches)_

_Earlier That Day_

_The sound of heavy heeled footsteps echoed throughout the main reception room of the Hawke estate. The nervous woman emitting the sounds was pacing furiously around the room, stopping to rifle through papers at the writing desk or to fiddle with the ornaments on the mantle piece. She was garbed in steel greaves and chain mail underneath a rich crimson tabard with the intricate crest of the Hawke family patterned in white on the front. Her hair was uncharacteristically neat and wound into a coil on the back of her head, though the woman's fingers had tugged some strands loose while she anxiously waited._

"_Aveline!" the woman waiting in the reception hall turned her head towards the landing above. "Kirkwall would be a much more popular place if all the guards looked like you." Aveline smiled at the compliment as she watched her friend descend the stairs accompanied by her Orlesian hand maid (who was fussing over a stray strand of the bride's hair) and Orana (who was admiring the lace trail she was carrying with both hands)._

"_I'd have preferred something heavier…" The restless guardsman-come-bridesmaid began._

"_No complaining," Hawke interrupted with an indelicate snort, detracting from the grace she commanded in her ivory wedding gown (when she kept her mouth shut). "I've got no armour to speak of. I don't even have a dagger. Well, I don't have a big one."_

"_Really? I'm sure you would have had plenty of hiding spots under those ruffles," Hawke gave her bulky bridesmaid a sour look. "You look very lovely." Aveline added with a soft genuine smile. The Champion shifted awkwardly at the foot of the stairs, the look on her face a three-way cross between embarrassment, tenseness and an, almost unnoticeable trace of delight._

"_How many are out there?" She asked her friend, motioning towards the front door._

"_I couldn't count."_

"_That many?" Aveline nodded sympathetically and Hawke released a long sigh. "Well, no point putting it off… I'm ready as I'll ever be."_

"_Now those are the words of an eager bride." All four women in the reception room turned to see the surprise intruder. The door had been opened with deft hands, so silently the wedding party hadn't ever noticed. And there in the doorway was a clean-cut dwarf dressed in powder blue silk, fine tan leather and adorned in silver and gold._

"_Varric!" Hawke greeted her friend warmly though she was more than a little taken aback. The storyteller had left Kirkwall months ago without a word since. "I never thought I'd come second prettiest to a beardless dwarf at my own wedding."_

"_Sorry Hawke, but you're trailing third. Bianca is sitting right here after all," He gave a half smile and motioned to the crossbow naturally slung across his back. Bianca was obviously the dwarf's date for the day. He gave a gentlemanly bow to Aveline, Orana and Gilley. "Ladies." Returning his attention back towards Hawke, Varric's voice changed to a less jovial tone. "Sorry about disappearing on you. I…" The pause lasted an uncomfortable duration._

"_Maker, Varric, don't tell me you're going to be at a loss for words for much longer. This day is going to have enough awkward silences as it is." Hawke's grin did it's best to mask the begrudged seriousness of the statement._

"_You're telling me you _didn't_ fall madly in love with a rich nobleman within the short few months I wasn't around and this wedding is just a convenient political arrangement without any real emotions involved? I'm shocked. Truly." The sarcastic dwarf remarked._

"_You make it sound so sordid."_

"_No… that's tonight you're thinking of." Hawke gave him a deadpan look for as long as she could manage before crumbling into smirk._

_After four or five of Gilley's eager requests the wedding party, that now consisted of five, headed towards the Chantry so that the bells could ring midday while they walked in musical Orlesian fashion. _

_Aveline wasn't exaggerating when she said there were too many people to count. They were only the poorer classes however, too many of them to barricade out of Hightown: Lowtowners, refugees, and Hawke spotted at least two pickpockets working their way through the crowd, all flooded into a part of the city few of them would ever see again. All the nobles had been invited and either were waiting inside the Chantry or were unable to attend altogether. _

_The Guard-Captain was leading the small wedding party past the Viscount's Keep, down the empty paths that the other guards had cleared. Although she would have never admitted it, Hawke had been nervous when she left the estate. She was no stranger to attention but the hundreds of eyes simply watching her walk through the streets were unsettling. As they progressed, her anxiety did not ease. Many in the crowd shouted congratulations and praised her as a fair Viscountess. Three or four cries of 'murderer' were flung as well and though they stung the Champion to a degree, she did her best to remain smiling._

"_Huh, I guess they still don't like you…" Varric muttered as the first bell echoed against the grand pale buildings of Hightown. "Idiots."_

"_I think they're confusing the word 'murderous' with 'matrimony'. I'm not bothered. It's a common mistake." Hawke smiled a forced smile but kept her eyes forward, glad that the bells were ringing loud enough so that her friend wouldn't notice the slight crack in her voice._

"I didn't know you had a scar," Hawke pointed towards a dark squiggle that ran from shoulder to collar bone on her husband's chest. Her finger tip hovered above the skin, not yet touching. "And you said you'd not had adventures! How'd you get that?" she asked with a grin.

"That's a birthmark, my lady." Aedan replied with a slight bitterness, eyes darting from one bruise to another cut to another scar on Hawke's pale body.

"Oh," There was another silence, longer and more awkward than the last. "Shall we just get into bed?" The Champion finally sighed, bluntly but by no means eagerly.

"If you wish." Aedan stood from the love-seat they had arranged themselves on when they first began the night and walked towards the bed. He heard his wife grumble something. _She was the one who suggested it, _he thought, slightly confused and slightly more annoyed, _women…_ His thoughts suddenly crashed into Anora, Queen of confusing situations as well as Ferelden. He buried a small smile by pursing his lips, his hand finding a bedpost and resting it on the smooth wood. His mind wondered, as it so often did, to thoughts of a whole night spent with the woman he loved.

_9:34 Dragon, Denerim (Ferelden)_

_Anora's golden hair was pulled free and spread out in all directions on the fat pillows beneath her head. Her eyes were closed and her lips were parted and pulled just slightly upwards at the sides, trying to prevent any sign of pleasure from spreading to the rest of her face. She was a master at controlling her reactions. A lady benefited from such a skill, especially one with power. She could be seen to be enjoying a dinner with the snakes and plotters as they made subtle jabs at the Mac Tir line and it's legitimacy to hold throne. Many men and women thought they should be the ones to rule and not the daughter of a commoner and a traitor. Since the Blight's end they had been making themselves known with a growing lack of concern about appearing to oppose their Queen. Earlier in the evening one such man openly stated Anora remarry soon or risk losing her country. It had been worded in a joke but it was certainly laced with warnings or barbed with threats._

_The Queen was not a woman to invite men to her bedchamber without reason. Dinner had been long and painful and the night looked to be longer and cold. And there was Aedan: wide eyed and eager to please._

_He planted a kiss on her lower stomach after he'd finished pleasing. The younger Cousland still ran his hands up and down her pale hips and outer thighs as she looked down at him and met his watery blue eyes with her own intense pair. Both said nothing but each had their thoughts._

_Aedan's were of her beauty. Her soft skin beneath his hands, her taste still in his mouth and they were also of his own need. He wondered if he'd ever be invited to spend the whole night with his Queen or whether she'd ever pleasure him as he had her. He thought maybe after they were married would he finally have her fully. To join together in the most basic nature that she still denied him._

_Anora's thoughts were if whether his brother was as skilled as a lover._

A small cough startled the new Viscount of Kirkwall's thoughts back into the room. His lady wife had settled herself beneath the bedcovers. The masses of quilt and blankets seemed to drown her. Aedan was slightly pleased at the less than intimidating sight of the tiny Champion; she seemed more approachable without her armour. The first time he had met her with her torn and muddied gown he'd mocked her with ease, much as he would do with commoner girls and maids around the Cousland castle before bedding them. He'd planned on doing the same with the scruffy woman who'd intruded into the bathroom that night. That was until she'd told him her name. Immediately the title of Champion around her neck was a weight that made him much more wary. When next they met he made sure to wear his armour to appear more opposing, but that failed when she turned up dressed in her beaten leathers that had seen more combat than some veteran soldiers. His own protective wear paled. _It must have looked delicate_, he had thought at the time sourly, _not even a scratch on it._ Hawke had even made a comment about his 'skirt'.

He looked over at the woman in his new bed and her large doe eyes peered back at him.

His new wife was capable. His wife brave and daring and powerful in combat and politics. She was not even close to Anora's beauty but she was not ugly to look at. She was fit and clever and witty.

And Aedan found himself hating her.


End file.
